


style

by M0stlyVoid



Series: Kinkuary 2021 [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Clothed Sex, Coach Draco Malfoy, Coming In Pants, Frottage, M/M, Pining, Quidditch Player Harry Potter, Too Much Testosterone, aggressive sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29155809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: Draco’s determined to keep Puddlemere United in the top slot of the Quidditch Premier League, by any means necessary. He’s fine with his reputation as a ball-busting, joyless coach who rides his team hard if it gets the job done. And if there’s one particular player he’d like to ride just a little bit harder? Well,by any means necessary,right?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinkuary 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132463
Comments: 25
Kudos: 214
Collections: HP Kinkuary 2021





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**Author's Note:**

> the february 2 prompt for kinkuary 2021 is— _clothed sex_.

Draco crosses his arms and squints across the pitch. The wind is high today, and he tightens his thighs around his broomstick to stay steady.

His penalty teams are on the other side and slightly below him scrimmaging, a rough three-on-five drill he’s been running for the last six minutes. The instructions had been the advantage team had to score six times, and the short-handed side had to clear the Quaffle back to the centre line three times, before he’d let them quit for the night, and they’re close, but the extra practice is clearly wearing on them—their play is getting slow, and the lines are sloppy.

Well. For most of them.

Draco grinds his back teeth together, then blows his whistle sharply twice. “Tighten up, tighten _up_! Roberts, stay in your zone! Thompson, quit _passing,_ you idiot, and take a fucking shot! And Potter, if you can get through a _single shift_ without throwing in a fucking spin move, your entire line will be spared wind sprints tomorrow morning! Now, take it back to centre and start over! Come on, one more left for each side, and then I can go home and drink this miserable excuse of a practice away!” he bellows, his _Sonorus_ -amplified voice booming across to the players, who turn and straggle back to midpitch, wearily reforming their lines.

All but Potter, who executes one more looping dive and salutes in Draco’s direction before taking his spot, hovering over the advantage line and drifting back and forth, waiting for the start whistle.

Draco’s teeth are dust in his mouth. He blows the whistle once more and watches as his players groan into motion.

* * *

Even after almost a year, Draco sometimes wakes up and thinks he’s still in the southwest of America, that he’ll spell his curtains open and be able to curl up and bake lizard-like in the morning sun streaming in through his window. As much as being back home makes him happier overall—and it certainly made his mother happier, too—there are things about Arizona he misses.

When the IAQ decided to institute the new fouls-and-penalties rules into international play, England had been left at a distinct disadvantage. North American teams had been playing this way for years, with rules adapted from Muggle ice hockey, and the Russians weren’t far behind, but the UK found itself without a single coach prepared to rush training and implementation of the new regulations.

Draco, who had been working as assistant manager of Arizona’s team, whose own pro career had stalled out in the US after a poorly-aimed Bludger and an incorrectly-cast Stasis spell had left him with his left shoulder’s range of motion permanently restricted, woke up one morning to find himself in the unique position of the only Britain-born Quidditch coach familiar enough with the rules to be able to get a training programme started immediately. The offers poured in, and finally Puddlemere offered him a compensation package so staggeringly massive that he almost felt bad accepting—almost.

When he’s feeling particularly guilty, he tells himself that the extra perks written into his contract—the luxury flat, the outsized team stock share, the handsome assistants, all of it—only begin to scratch the surface of making up for having to deal with _Potter_ every single day.

As team captain and the prized pony in Puddlemere’s star-studded stable, Potter is in every promotional spot and every carefully-scripted ‘spontaneous’ behind-the-scenes broadcast. He attends all the charity events, he takes on the yeoman’s share of media responsibility on game days, and his face and number are _everywhere_ —his kit has been the highest-selling in the UK leagues for four years running now. He’s been buffed and polished to media-ready perfection by the vast warren of PR rabbits in the Puddlemere machine, and his soundbites _still_ make the front page, even when they’re bland to the point of useless.

He is also, Draco was _deeply_ irritated to discover, genuinely hard-working, welcoming to new players, and respectful of the coaching staff—a leader in the room when the team needs it, but deferring back to Draco and his colleagues when the real decisions need to be made.

He’s also _phenomenally_ fit, with thick thighs thighs and broad shoulders that have shown up in far more of Draco’s shower thoughts than he’s comfortable admitting to. Even if his play were total shit, even if he weren’t the bloody _Boy Who Lived,_ Draco knows Potter would be the face of this godforsaken organization, with that body and that hair and those _eyes_.

Draco had walked into practice that first day geared up for—harsh words, a snubbing, maybe even a physical altercation? Instead, Potter had shaken his hand enthusiastically, smiled broadly, and earnestly said how pleased he and the team were to have Draco there, and how much they were all looking forward to learning from him, and how _grateful_ they were he’d picked Puddlemere, as his familiarity with the new system would no doubt give them an advantage both in league play and when it came time for national team selection.

Draco had found himself charmed, and instantly hated it.

Well. He didn’t, really. And isn’t that part of the problem?

* * *

Finally, _finally,_ both sides manage to hit their targets, and Draco swoops down to meet them at the entrance to the lockers, sending each player in to shower and change with a quiet word of encouragement and a pat on the back.

Potter’s last in line, like he always is, and Draco puts his arm out to stop him from heading in. “A word, Potter?” he says, baring his teeth. It’s not a smile.

Potter tilts his head, but shrugs. It’s warm out today despite how late in autumn it is, and Potter’s shirt is plastered to his torso. Draco very carefully does not look below Potter’s eyes. “Can I change first? Only, those chairs in your office are so _nice,_ I wouldn’t want to mess them up.”

Draco blows a slow breath out through his nose and steps back. “Fine. Make it quick. I have places to be tonight.”

Potter _winks,_ the fucker, and disappears into the locker room. “There in a flash!” he shouts back.

Draco paces to his office and seriously considers opening the emergency vodka he keeps stashed in his desk drawer, but before he can put that thought to action, Potter bursts in, clearly having taken the fastest shower of his life. His curls are damp against his neck, and water is dripping down from his hairline to wet the collar of his t-shirt. His joggers are worn and tight, and he’s got one of those horrific baseball caps clutched in one hand, which he tosses on the desk. Draco sneers at it—that was one fashion trend he avoided at all costs in the States.

“Alright, Coach,” Harry says cheerily, plopping down onto one of the plush chairs Draco has on the other side of his desk and stretching his legs out. “What’s up? Did you want to talk about Roberts? I don’t know why he keeps drifting out of zone, it’s like he’s forgetting that when he’s on the short-hand side we don’t play man-to-man—I had a few thoughts on some exercises, actually, some ideas for two-on-one drills to help him understand, if you can get Quenneville to let us and one other person off an hour early tomorrow—”

“No,” Draco interrupts, leaning back in his chair. Potter snaps his mouth shut, raising an eyebrow. “Well, yes, something needs to be done about Roberts, and you might— We can talk about that later. Potter, we need to talk about your attitude.”

Potter straightens. “My— I’m sorry, my _attitude_? What are you talking about?” He leans forward, closing the distance between them, arms tensing.

Draco barely stops a sneer. He’s no stranger to physical posturing, and it doesn’t work on him. He leans forward too—he might not be as built as Potter is any more (if he’s being honest, he _never_ was—American Seekers are prized for speed and aerodynamics above all else, while the UK style has always favoured more musculature and an ability to bully their way to the Snitch, as opposed to outmaneuvering), but he’s still in shape, and he’s not going to be intimidated by one of his players, especially not _Potter_. “I _mean,_ all that fucking showboating out on the field. You know as well as I do that our experience edge for penalty plays isn’t going to last much longer—the other teams are catching up, you saw it at Wimbourne last week. If you don’t take these practice drills seriously, _nobody_ does. They take their cues from you, and if you’re fucking around like a trick pony up there, they get distracted, and then it’s only a matter of time until the bloody _Cannons_ are scoring past us.”

Potter’s jaw drops. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me? You know I put in _twice_ the work of anyone on this team—excuse _me_ for trying to enjoy myself a little bit out there every now and then! You’re so fucking joyless, Malfoy, Christ; it’s Quidditch, not a fucking prison gang, you could lighten up a little.”

Draco narrows his eyes. “Yes, it’s _Quidditch,_ which happens to be your _job,_ Potter. This isn’t a lark at the weekend with your pals—go join a beer league if that’s what you’re looking for. I won’t hesitate to drop you down to second string if you can’t tighten it up in practice and set an example for the rest of the team—you were given that armband for a _reason,_ and it wasn’t to do loop-the-loops in midair while everyone else runs drills!”

Potter _snarls,_ and Draco’s body heats. He’s spent enough time in competitive sport to find aggression kind of hot—so sue him. “ _Fuck_ you, Malfoy. This is _my_ team. You really think you can swan in here and _threaten_ me? Maybe if you stopped riding me so goddamn hard you’d see the results you’re looking for!”

“Oh, you’ve got no _idea_ how hard I could be riding you, Potter,” spills from Draco’s mouth before he can stop himself.

It’s like the air is sucked out of the room all at once, and as they stare at each other across the desk, Draco watches Potter’s pupils expand.

He licks his lips. That’s all it takes.

Potter’s fast on a broom. He’s faster than Draco’s ever seen him when he circles the desk, hauls Draco out of his chair, and shoves him against the wall.

“You’re just as much of a little shit as you ever were, aren’t you,” he snarls, green eyes bled to black. He pushes one of those gloriously thick thighs between Draco’s legs and grinds up ruthlessly onto Draco’s half-hard cock, chubbing rapidly in his trousers. “Fuck, you and that goddamn whistle, barking orders all over _my_ pitch, swooping around in those bloody shorts all through training camp. You make me want to put you on your fucking _knees,_ Malfoy, just like you did at school.”

Draco’s panting and writhing forward against Potter’s leg, hands roaming up and down Potter’s back, getting handfuls of that arse to grind them closer together. “ _Your_ pitch? You’re such an egotistical shit, just like _always;_ you think this is your house? You’re nothing more than a piece of horseflesh to the organization. You’re going to run in your harness until you’re too broken and old to be put back together by the training staff, and then you’ll be put to pasture like the rest of the has-beens.” He scratches _hard_ down Potter’s back, and Potter yowls and bites at his neck. “Fuck, _god,_ Potter, yeah, just—”

Potter’s hard against Draco’s hip, and the fabrics between them are so thin Draco can feel its hot pulse. His mouth waters; he desperately wants that in his mouth, wants to be _put on his knees_ just like Potter said, but…

“Shit,” Potter mutters, crushing them even harder together, and with a few more shuddering thrusts Draco feels Potter come, that big cock twitching and a warm wetness spreading through the fabric.

Draco nearly bites through his own lip as he comes with a strangled shout, slumping back against the wall and breathing harshly. His heart is thundering in his chest, and his vision is sparking black around the edges.

Potter’s got his whole weight crushing into Draco now, mouthing lazily at Draco’s neck as he catches his own breath.

After a minute, Potter laughs ruefully to himself and pulls back, staggering a bit until he gets a hand on the back of Draco’s chair. Draco watches as he takes a few deep breaths, then rolls his neck and walks back around to the other side of the desk.

Potter grabs the ballcap off the desk and crams it over his curls, then extracts his wand from its arm holster and cleans himself off with a few whispered words. The wet spot at the front of his joggers disappears. He winks at Draco once, then heads for the door. “Great session, coach. We can _talk strategy_ more tomorrow. I’ve got some _really_ interesting ideas on tightening up the play that I think you’ll just _love_.”

The door shuts. Draco thunks his head back against the wall.

He’s fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is [here](https://bonesliketambourines.tumblr.com/post/642064200756330496/kinkuary-day-2-style).


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